Streets/Chapter 2
Daylight danced l over the cracked street, so empty and quiet, with no cars rumbling down it with their whirring engines like they do almost any other street. It was that worse for wear that you'd need to be an idiot to drive down here anyway, unless you wanted a punctured tyre or some similar damage, what with all the potholes and loose stones that dotted the damaged cul-de-sac. Francis subconsciously stepped over all of these different calamities, as he liked to call them. The young American whistled to himself merrily as if his messy attire didn't matter at all - ripped jeans and scuffed trainers, complete with hoodie and bedhead. It didn't matter if you lived on this street, the ones who couldn't afford much lived here - and, according to the more well-to-do, so did the drunkards and smokers. Well, that much was true. He sighed, looking at house after house and trying to remember who lived in them. His house...easily the most orderly because he didn't mess with substances...the alcoholic's house. His eyes rested there - Lavinia. They'd been friends a while, although he was growing tired of having to clean up her vomit and tuck her in bed when she had the migraine from hell. He yawned, he could never succumb to sleep these days, he knew he was an insomniac...but this was stupid. The guy who he'd seen stumbling home just now - he was probably high again, he guessed. The other girl's house, he couldn't remember whether she dabbled in anything. The sun was beating down and he was sweating considerably, so he stopped his musings and continued down the asphalt until he saw an engagement ring stuck in a crack. He grinned, and nimbly nudged it out with a smirk on his face. If he could polish it up, it would make nice money...and nobody would miss it. Maybe some poor rich snob got lost and dropped it. But after all, it's not his loss, it's his gain. His whistles turned to a contented hum to the tune of Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah as he fumbled for his lighter. He didn't smoke, he was just a bit of a pyromaniac and loved the way the flames danced. He pulls the gate to, the silver paint crumbling in his fingers, revealing the rusted metal that hid beneath. He grumbled about needing to repaint his gate, and reminded himself that if he had done better at school, maybe he would have a job, and would have a bit more money, and not be in this mess. Maybe someday. But now he'd just have to make do, it appears. He pocketed the ring when he realised he was still clutching it, clicking the lighter and watching the tiny flame like a child would their favourite toy. "Keys..." Francis reluctantly let the flame die before placing it in his back pocket. He remembered his father telling him never to do that, but it was his choice. Finally finding his keys, he clumsily unlocked it, pulled the door handle and goes inside. And there she was, blue hair and all, bold as brass, sat in his house, and his armchair, with a bottle of WKD. "Do you like it?" Lavinia asks, twiddling the ends delicately. "Electric Blue." She was in his house. And the first thing she did was ask about her hair? Damnit. That girl was so going to screw with the wrong person someday. "No." he lied - he couldn't help it, being a pathological liar. He was a bit of a mess of things. An insomniac, pyromaniac, kleptomaniac and a pathological liar. He did like it...but there were more important things. "What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?" "You left your back door wide open, mate." She replied, her words very slurred with drink. Francis takes the bottle of vodka with an impatient sigh as she continued. "That's a 'hey Lavinia, you can come in' in my book, Franc." "Well, it wasn't." Francis retorted through gritted teeth - she was such an enigma. "And don't call me Franc, you know that I hate it. Remember Uncle Oliver? He called me that, so excuse me if I don't want to be reminded." "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell, but okay then Fran." Lavinia looks around her quickly. "Where's my vodka? Hey! Fran, give it back, I spent my money on that!" She looked like a kicked puppy, with those eyes and pushed out lip. No. He wasn't going to fall for that trick again. "This is my house, and I'm not cleaning your vomit off the floor. You'd have to pay for the cleaner." Maybe that would get her to sober up. He takes her by the shoulders and steers her to the guest room. "You're going to try and sleep that off, Lavinia, because you're not going home whilst you're drunk and stupid." "What are you talking about, Fran? I'm always drunk and stupid!" She erupts in pearls of laughter as Francis puts her on the bed, pulling the covers over her. She patted the space in the bed next to her. Francis shook his head. She really must be drunk beyond belief. Smiling at her, almost fondly, he walks towards the door, and then stops, as if remembering something. "Night, Lavinia."